The Hunt - Megan Shepherd Page 0,89

back home and then go to war? It’s madness. You’ll all be killed.”

He gave her a long look she couldn’t read. That wrinkle between his eyes deepened, and for a chilling second, she remembered how he had tried to strangle her. She pressed a hand against her neck, reminding herself that hadn’t been real.

“There will be no war,” he said. “There will be no ship back to Earth either.”

Her throat threatened to close up further. “But Cassian said the secondary plan was—”

“Yes, that was his secondary plan. It doesn’t mean it was my plan.”

The chill spread up her arms as her breath came faster. She blinked at him, all her fears becoming real. “It was you,” she whispered. “You were the watcher. You told the Council about my escape attempt.” Anger flooded her. “Cassian trusted you!”

“That is his major fault—he trusts the wrong people. He was a fool to trust me. To trust you as well. You never would have beaten the Gauntlet, cheating or otherwise.” He straightened. “But that is over now. There will be no signal to go to war. Tessela and the others within the Fifth of Five will be investigated and, in time, arrested. I shall take you to Arrowal. If you think you are safe because of the moral code, you are wrong. Arrowal has ways around it.”

He pressed a hand against her mouth before she could scream. He dragged her from the alcove, kicking and tearing at his hand. The Hunt lodge had been cleared of guests. The lights were low, and the savanna’s artificial sun was extinguished for the night.

Give up, Cassian had said. But he hadn’t counted on this.

Cora spotted one of the baskets of jacks on the nearest table. She concentrated on moving the basket, inch by inch, until it spilled onto the floor. She threw her weight so that Fian tripped over the jacks and they both fell downward. Pain ripped through her, but she scrambled to her feet. Right behind the bar there was an entrance to the drecktube tunnels that they used for dirty napkins and empty bottles. It was small—too small for a Kindred to squeeze into, but she might be able to. She raced for it, just as Fian sprang to his feet.

Please have left it propped open, Leon, Cora begged. Her fingers connected with it just as Fian rounded the corner of the bar. She ripped at the door with her nails until it pulled open; the latch had been kept from closing by a crumpled bag of potato chips, and she gasped at this good luck. She wriggled through the gap, twisting until her hips were through. She tumbled into the darkness of the tunnel just as Fian reached for her foot, but his fingers glided off her heel.

She scrambled back. Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed the glittering line of a cleaner trap, and froze just two seconds before she would have sprung it.

Fian pressed his face against the gap. “Those tunnels are filled with safeguards. If the shipping crates don’t crush you, a cleaner trap will burn you alive.”

Heart racing, she glanced again at the cleaner trap two inches from her toe. Beside it on the wall was one of Leon’s chalk drawings to indicate danger.

She’d never been so thankful for Leon’s artistic nature.

She crawled without looking back, stumbling as fast as she could, scanning the walls for more of Leon’s markings. The air was so thin she could hardly breathe. Part of her wanted to go back to an hour ago, so that she could take back what had just happened, confess before Cassian could, tell him sooner of her suspicions that Fian couldn’t be trusted.

She leaned against the side of the tunnel. She couldn’t shake that last look at Cassian’s face—still trying to protect her, after everything.

Somewhere on the station, it would be Free Time. Lucky would be anxiously waiting for her. Mali too. Did she dare risk seeking them to tell them what had happened? It would be nearly impossible to find the Hunt again without Leon to guide her, and besides, Fian would probably be with them already, anticipating that it might be her plan to return.

The last remnant of strength dissipated from her legs. She collapsed on the tunnel floor. Fear and regret twisted her stomach. Images of Cassian’s beaten and bloody face crept into view, but no—that wasn’t how the Kindred operated. Whatever plan they had for him would involve less blood, but